


Breaking Up With Peter Hale

by orphan_account



Series: Reality Hurts [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Comfort Eating, Hand Jobs, M/M, Sadness, Sickness, break ups, optional happy ending, references to sounding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-08-07 18:09:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7724548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Stiles was certain that his break up was harder than most. First up, this was Peter fucking Hale that he was trying to break up with here. The man who was 2 parts sex-machine, 3 sarcasm, and 95% pure evil."</p><p>A look into the protracted sadness that is a relationship breaking down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breaking Up With Peter Hale

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be written for Steter Week, but like all good fanfic, it's late.

 

Breaking up with anyone is hard.

 

Everyone will tell you that.

 

They are hard. They _need time._

 

“Your heart won’t mend in a day!”

 

Stiles got that, he got that Peter was his first Proper Relationship™, and he just was going to have to learn how break ups work. Just how he had to learn what how relationships work. And how blow jobs work. And how oil based lube DO NOT WORK with condoms.

 

Life’s a learning curve.

 

But he was certain that this break up was harder than most. This was Peter fucking Hale that he was trying to break up with here. The man who was 2 parts sex-machine, 3 sarcasm, and 95% pure evil.

 

“Why did we ever even start dating again?”

 

Stiles complained on the phone to Scott, while browsing the biscuit aisle in the local supermarket.

 

“I don’t know man, like, I stopped asking you that after you told me what a reach around was.”

 

“I can’t believe I didn’t even know what that was... That’s like a sex staple.”

 

“Yeah, and I can’t believe we’re still having this conversation two years later.”

 

So life was hard right now, that was a given, but it probably didn’t help that they were still living together, Stiles thought morosely.

 

He still had his Peter’s credit card in his wallet, and decided that just pushing the left hand corner of the cookie shelf into his cart was the only way that his day even tolerable.

 

“I know dude... Will you be free tonight?”

 

“Sorry man, I’m stuck at the clinic. I’ll be around on Friday though.”

 

Stiles frowned some more, pushing his cart over to the fridge section.

 

“That’s two days away.”

 

“What’s your dad up to?”

 

“He’s working tonight, I can probably see him tomorrow though… Have you tried the new magnum icecreams? I want something to eat while I’m waiting for my Ben & Jerrys to melt.”

 

“Just get those frozen mars icecreams we used to eat. And you’ll be ok for one night, and watch those Star Wars films you like.”

 

Stiles snorted at Scott, “I don’t even have the energy to talk to you about not having watched Star Wars right now.”

 

Stiles knocks some haribo sweets into his mound of confectionary, and snags a few litres of chocolate milk as he goes. When the cashier begins to start ringing up his items, she gives him a warm smile.

 

“Having some friends over for a party?” She says good naturedly.

 

“Yeah, it’s my pity party. Everyone who cares about me is coming.”

 

“That’s nice dear.”

 

Peter’s credit card cashed out with ease, and Stiles sighed at himself for breaking his resolution to stop using it.

 

Getting all the food in his jeep, then back out again, and up the silly spiral staircase that lead to their (Peter’s) apartment wasn’t an easy task.

 

By the time Stiles finally got up through the door, he was sweating. It didn’t really matter however, since he already hadn’t showered in the past week, and was actually wearing his pajamas under a big soft woollen jumper of Peter’s.

 

“I’m a mess.” He grumbled, dragging the bags into the kitchen.

 

“Don’t go putting yourself down on my behalf.” Peter answered him, the man was standing at the stove stirring some kind of white sauce.

 

“I wouldn’t, you’d probably just be sympathetic and help me make better life choices.” Stiles said with a little more bite than he intended, shoving his ice cream aggressively into the freezer.

 

“Do you want dinner?”

 

“What is it?”

 

“Chicken Cordon Bleu, deconstructed, with a crisp rosemary crust.”

 

“Is that the one that’s cheese-y sauce on chicken?”

 

“And chunks of ham.”

 

“Oh... Oh, okay then. Yes.”

 

“Do you want wine?”

 

“Do we have any dessert wine left?”

 

“Probably, I stashed a case of Moscato in the cupboard under the stairs. Do you want a glass now?”

 

“Yes please.”

 

Stiles felt very odd sitting at their breakfast table in the kitchen, he could smell himself through his clothes, and when he moved, his hair felt stuck to his head. Peter however had been to work that day, and was still in his nice suit pants and a smart shirt (undone halfway down his chest, of course.)

 

The man sat down next to him, depositing a plateful of food in front of them both, and pouring himself a glass of Bianco di Custoza that Stiles recognised from the hundreds of times Peter had served them meals in a cream sauce. The knowledge hit him low in his stomach, and he hastily shoved a mouthful of too-hot chicken in his mouth to cover it up.

 

He knew wines now.

 

Peter had taught him about wines.

 

Before they were together, he didn’t give a shit about wines, but now he knew what to pair with a carbonara. Two years of dating, and now he couldn’t forget wine pairings if he tried.

 

“How was your day?” Peter asked affably.

 

“I got up before 4pm.”

 

“A great improvement.”

 

“I’m seeing Scott on Friday, and my father is hosting dinner tomorrow night.”

 

“That’s nice, you’ll enjoy spending time with him.”

 

“Technically you’re invited.”

 

“Technically.”

 

“Do you want to come?”

 

“I always enjoy the sheriff's company.”

 

“You can come, if you want. It won’t make any difference.”

 

“I’ll let you decide tomorrow.”

 

“Can I taste your wine?”

 

Peter was just lifting his glass to his mouth as Stiles asked, he paused and gave Stiles a funny look. “Are you sure? You’ve never been keen on whites.”

 

“I know. I just want to taste it with the meal.”

 

Peter passed him a glass, and Stiles took a sip. The straw yellow wine had a strong aromatic scent, though tasted a more delicate bitter flavour. It cut through the heavy cream taste that had clung to Stiles’ tongue previously.

 

Ridiculously, Stiles began to cry.

 

“Oh...” Peter started.

 

“It tastes… It tastes really nice with the chicken.”

 

“Yes, I pair them together often.”

 

Stiles nodded, putting the glass down and blowing his nose into the serviette.

 

“Sorry... I didn’t mean to cry over dinner.”

 

“That’s ok.”

 

Stiles pushed more of the food in his mouth, he was going to miss this recipe. He didn’t even really know what deconstructed food was… Or what the constructed version of a Cordon Bleu would look like.

 

“You’re always telling me all of this is okay.”

 

“That’s because you’re allowed to be sad.”

 

Stiles felt tears threaten to spill over again: the words, _why aren’t you sad?_ On the tip of his tongue, instead he swallowed down more of the thick sauce. Fishing out the little chunks of ham first, and saving them at the side of his plate for when he’d eaten everything else.

 

“I’m going to watch Disney films and write fanfiction on the couch.” Stiles mumbles when he’s finished. He’s had two glasses of wine, but the food has helped him stay sober.

 

“That sounds fun. I’m going to finish some work in the bedroom-” it used to be *our bedroom* but Peter had yet to go back to calling it *my bedroom* so for now it was just *the bedroom* “- you’re welcome to come in and get anything you want.”

 

Stiles nodded, slipping out from his chair and snagging the box of mars ice creams and the tub of Ben & Jerrys. Most of his sleep clothes had been moved to the spare bedroom for ease, seeing how that room also housed a bunch of the junk that Stiles had brought with him when he first moved in, but didn’t actually have a home in Peter’s already furnished house.

 

He sat at his computer and opened a fresh Google doc. Stiles had about a hundred WIPs already started, and a good few fics on his ao3 account that was calling out to be updated. Instead he decided to write some crackfic about Hannibal and Will Graham being beauty and the beast. Or, it was supposed to be crackfic, until 6,000 words in (four sex scenes and two life or death decisions later) and he realised he was writing an angst-ridden drama, and had finished all his icecreams.

 

His Netflix queue loaded up the next episode of Gilmore Girls, and he ripped into a new pack of double chocolate cookies. It was just that kind of night.

 

By 3am he had finished all his chocolate milk by breaking up oreos and soaking them in a bowl like a giant chocolate cereal, and he had written Hannibal saving Will (who was the Beast in the fic, ironically) by killing and eating Jack (Gaston). It was a satisfying story, and he was proud of the plot arc. But it wasn’t the sarky little ficlit he’d been hoping to write, and he’d definitely stayed up too late.

 

Stiles dragged his things into the spare room, and tried to get some sleep. He had put on Winter Soldier on low on in front of him, and tried to keep his eyes shut. Every few minutes though he’d open them and look at the screen, and thought some more about how different his life was the last time he had watched the film.

 

By the time Natasha Romanoff is on the screen making wise cracks at Steve Rogers, he slams the laptop shut and slinks out of bed.

 

Peter’s bedroom door was ajar, and the subtle light of the outside streetlights were illuminating the room enough that Stiles could see the man easily. Peter was topless, although he was probably wearing a pair of boxers under the sheet that obscured the lower half of his body.

 

The form in front of him looked familiar and new all at the same time.

 

‘This was the man I spent two years sharing my life with.’ His brain supplied unhelpfully.

 

‘I know those brows, that slope of a nose. I know those arms, the wide and deep chest. I know this man.’

 

It didn’t stop him looking foreign to Stiles though, as if Peter was covered in an invisible force field that repelled him.

 

A moment later, Peter opened his eyes, turning his head to face Stiles, and soft smile on his face.

 

“Hello Starkid,” The pet name felt like a hot stab in the gut, but Stiles eagerly stepped forward for more, “did you need something?”

 

Stiles fidgeted a little by the door.

 

“Can I… Can I come sleep in here?” Stiles watched Peter’s face like a hawk, hyper-vigilant for any sign of distaste on the man’s visage.

 

Instead though, Peter just drew back the covers, and made a space for him.

 

“Come on then.”

 

Stiles scrambled into bed, his cold limbs slipping across the soft silk sheets, and pressing into the hot embrace of his bedmate.

 

He pushed his nose, the coldest part of him, under Peter’s jaw, hiding his face, and his vulnerability.

 

“I’m sorry, I just wanted some affection.”

 

Peter yawned, but then squeezed Stiles closer, his deep breath setting into a low rumble in his chest. Stiles let it soak into him, the contact sewing up wounds in his chest he thought he was just imagining.

 

He wanted to stay here, he wanted this moment to not end.

 

It was that line of thinking that brought tears to his eyes again, salty trickles falling down the crease of his face.

 

“Poor little princeling,” Peter mused, his voice rich with sleep, and their most intimate pet names falling from his mouth, “so sad and worn out.”

 

“I’m sorry. I’m always crying.”

 

“I know, and it’s ok. I just want you to be able to get some sleep.”

 

“Why aren’t you sad?” Stiles asks, his voice thick, and his lip quivering as he asks.

 

Peter sighs a deep sigh, and presses a kiss to the top of Stiles’ head, “I am sad.”

 

“No you’re not.” Stiles whines, detangling himself. In rebuke, but also so he can reach over a grab some tissues he knows are tucked inside the bedside cabinet. He blows his nose loudly, and throws a scalding look at Peter. “You’re fine, you’re just… Nothing.”

 

“I’m something Stiles.”

 

“You don’t cry.”

 

“I cry.”

 

Stiles gasps. “You cry? When!? Why?”

 

Stiles watches Peter purse his lips, a sign he’s clearly uncomfortable with the conversation track. All the same, he sighs and sits up some more.

 

“In the mornings, when I reach out to touch you and you’re not there.”

 

“And it makes you cry?”

 

“It makes me sad. And sometimes sadness makes you cry.”

 

Stiles nods, crawling back into Peter’s arms.

 

“Sadness makes me cry. I feel so alone all the time.”

 

“I’m still here.”

 

“I know… But somehow that’s worse.”

 

“Yes. You’re right there Starkid.”

 

Stiles falls asleep in Peter’s arms.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles wakes up to an empty bed.

 

It makes him cry.

 

Peter has left him a note saying that he should probably try and shower if he wanted to go have dinner with his father that evening. Instead, Stiles retrieved his laptop and his cookies and brought them into Peter’s bed. And ate them in what was once the warm space where the man had slept.

 

He messaged Lydia saying: “maybe itd be easier if i just pretend peter is dead”

 

She replied quickly: “That’s what I’ve been doing for years, and it works for me.”

 

He snorted in amusement.

 

To Lyds: “theres a process for getting over dead people. You grieve and shit”

 

To Batkid: “To pretend Peter is dead, you’re probably going to have to move out of his house.”

 

To Lyds: “urghed whats with you and your logic”

 

To Batkid: “It’s a gift xoxo.”

 

Stiles is on his seventh bag of reese's pieces when he starts feeling a bit ill.

 

“Oh great, now I’m dying.” He muses, putting the chocolate aside to drink some Red Bull instead.

 

Something about it just makes him feel worse.

 

“I really can’t be dealing with this right now!” He grumbles, holding his stomach daintily.

 

It makes him miss Peter. Everything makes him miss Peter.

 

He reaches for his phone and calls him.

 

“Hello Starkid, you just caught me coming out of a meeting.”

 

“Peter, I don’t feel very well.”

 

“Ah, where are you now?”

 

“I’m still in your bed.”

 

“Ah. Do you need me to come home?”

 

“...Yes.”

 

“Okay, I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

 

Peter got home while Stiles had finally given up on any attempts of keeping down his junk food spree, and was vomiting in the bathroom. He was crying, although Stiles wasn’t sure if that was from being sick, or from how miserable he was.

 

“Here you go sweetheart.” Peter said, handing Stiles a glass of water and rubbing his back.

 

“I’m sorry I called you away from work.”

 

“Tssh, you have nothing to be sorry about.”

 

“You’re always saying that.”

 

“Come on Stiles, drink your water.” Stiles knew he was being needy, and pathetic, and simpering too much. But everything was just too much of a fucking mess for him to stop.

 

He sipped his water, his throat finally feeling parched.

 

“Are you still feeling sick?”

 

Stiles shook his head, finishing the last of the water. “No, I think I threw up everything that was making me feel ill… I feel a bit wobbly though.”

 

Peter brought his hand up to Stiles throat, Stiles closed his eyes and felt the small throbs of pain his abused gullet had been sending out, mellow into nothingness. It didn’t stop the overwhelming feeling of ‘I just puked my guts out’, but it helped.

 

“I think you’ll be ok. Come on, let’s get you in the shower.”

 

It was strangely clinical Peter’s stripping of his clothes, the touch on his arms and gentle brushes of fingers on his stomach, more caring than intimate. There was a wretchedness to it, that as Stiles steps under the warm spray, his mostly hard erection felt like a strange interloper.

 

He touched it loosely, half guarding it from Peter, half initiating. The other man however was now fussing with the toilet. Cleaning away the remnants of vomit, and picking up Stiles’ abandoned clothes, sodden from a week’s worth of uncleanness. The setting culled Stiles’ erection.

 

He washed himself morosely, rubbing Peter’s fancy body wash across his torso, under his arms, in the grooves of his groin, thinking about how maybe it was easier for him not being a wolf. Not having to think about scents, and how long it takes for a person you’ve lived with for two years, to stop smelling like home. He’d like to know how he smelt now though, as someone who lived with another man, a wolf, who shared a bed with someone who touched him. It’d be nice to know what it smelt like, seeing how he’d be losing it soon.

 

Peter was sitting on the bed typing something on his phone when Stiles slipped out the bathroom wrapped in a towel.

 

“Do you still think I’m sexy?” Stiles asks, his voice coming out in a bit of a squeak.

 

Peter looks up at him, eyebrows raised in mild surprise.

 

“Of course. What’s brought this on?”

 

Stiles pouts at the floor, “I get we’re not having sex because we broke up. But… It just feels like we’re not having sex because I’m pathetic.”

 

“It’s definitely not because you’re pathetic.”

 

Stiles shuffles forward a little more, until he’s pretty much standing between Peter’s legs.

 

“Will you... Will you touch me?”

 

“You sound like you did when we first started having sex. Stumbling over your words.”

 

“Is that sexy to you?”

 

Peter breaths out a laugh, bringing a hand up to coast up Stiles thigh, disappearing under his towel. “Stop worrying about what I find sexy.”

 

He tugs off the towel until Stiles is standing naked, his erection has finally returned, eager now he’s so close to Peter’s body. His brain keeps on sending him unhelpful messages though: ‘this is a bad idea’ ‘you’re going to regret doing this’ ‘what does it mean if this happens?’.

 

Stiles pushes them out of his mind when Peter takes hold of his prick. The man is deft at jerking him off, they must of done this hundreds - if not thousands - of times. Stiles raises his hands to rest them on Peter’s shoulders to help support himself, and it allows him to thrust into the large rough fist that Peter has made around his erection.

 

He’s gasping within minutes, his body unused to the stimulation, and eager to get off again now it has the chance. The thoughts in Stiles’ head get a bit louder: ‘why is it so quiet?’ ‘why aren’t they kissing?’ ‘why are they doing this?’

 

The cold heat of an orgasm begins to whisper through Stiles nerves, and he finally starts keening. Peter, knowledgeable of Stiles’ body, takes this as his cue to slip his thumb repeatedly over the slit, his blunt nail rubbing maddeningly on every downwards stroke.

 

Stiles cums then, his ejactulate coating Peter’s hand, and his hips stuttering forward to chase the remnants of the pleasure.

 

“Fuck.” He whispers, as he collapses forward, slipping over Peter’s knee so he is instead lying on the bed.

 

Peter gently edges out from beneath him, and pulls the sheet over him.

 

“You get some rest, I’ll wake you up in time for going to dinner with your father.”

 

Peter is already in the ensuite bathroom with Stiles’ responds.

 

“Are you going to go back to work?”

 

“No, there’s no point now. I’ll just do some reports in the kitchen. Don’t worry about me.”

 

He gives Stiles’ bum a tap through the sheet as he walks back through the bedroom, and out to the hallway.

 

Stiles feels empty.

 

He can’t remember them ever not kissing during sex.

 

Even at the beginning when the idea of _dating_ and _monogamy_ felt silly. There was kissing, and passion, and intimacy.

 

Stiles is grateful he falls asleep before the first of his tears hit the sheets.

 

* * *

 

 

“Hey remember that time I convinced myself I was going to love sounding?”

 

They’re in the car now, Peter driving his BMW M5 that Stiles had begrudgingly come to accept was his ‘not-flashy’ car. But only because his other vehicle was a mercedes soft top, and during the span of their relationship Stiles had only been allowed to drive it once.

 

“From what I remember, you did love sounding.”

 

Peter has that gentle smugness to his voice, it’s as endearing as it is infuriating.

 

“Very true. Wasn’t so keen the next day though. Taking a piss was a roller coaster of feelings.  Hey did you like, you know... Doing that with me?”

 

“I love putting things in all your holes.”

 

They were now turning past the Denny’s a few blocks from Stiles’ father house. Sometimes when the Sheriff had served them a dinner of only salad - a failed attempt to con Stiles into thinking he was eating healthy - Peter and he would pick up curly fries on the way home.

 

“Not anymore.” Stiles muttered passive aggressively.

 

They had just stopped at a red light, giving Peter the chance to turn and raise one accusatory eyebrow at him.

 

Stiles rolls his eyes - mostly at himself for letting this conversation come up - before looking out the window. Two years in and there were still some things he wasn’t comfortable with looking Peter in the eye when talking about.

 

“You didn’t want to have sex earlier.”

 

“Stiles, we’re about to arrive at your father’s house-”

 

“I know! But like, this is going to stay on my mind all night if we don’t talk about it now.”

 

“And what is it you want to talk about?”

 

“You, not wanting to fuck me!”

 

“That’s not what happened Stiles.”

 

“What, are you saying I just missed you trying to have sex? Because from what I remember, you left the room pretty fucking quickly.”

 

Peter never really kept music playing in his car while he drove, but had relented for Stiles benefit and made a playlist that he’d allow to play in the car. Now there was a strange mixture of classical pieces, folk songs, and whatever pop trash Stiles had snuck on there. Right now the mournful tunes of Joni Mitchell battled with their raised voices.

 

“Stiles, you’re blowing all of this out of proportion. I’m trying to be a good guy.”

 

“Since fucking when!?”

 

“Since fucking forever! Since a good way into our relationship! Or did you just think I was burying hunters in the back garden!?”

 

“I don’t know. For all I know you sneak out and murder kittens at night!”

 

Stiles genuinely has no idea why he just said that, which tends to be the case when you spring an argument on someone out of nowhere.

 

Peter suddenly parks the car, and Stiles has to look around and see that they are still about a block from his father’s house.

 

“I don’t even know if I’m angry that you’d say that - or frustrated to think that you might even prefer to hear that I do!”

 

“What are you talking about!? I love kittens!”

 

Peter near growls, his fingers itching on the steering wheel. Stiles sees the quickest flash of supernatural blue seep in and out of Peter’s eyes, and he notices just how long it has been since he’s seen the man wolf out in any kind of way.

 

“I’m saying, Stiles, that…” Peter let go of the steering wheel and turned to face him, he lets out a long even breath that is almost a sigh, and he was wearing his Responsible Adult™ face again. “-remember when you told me I was boring?”

 

“No. Not at all.”

 

“Sure you do. I told you that Scott didn’t need help handling some simple territory patrolling, and we should stay in and watch the rest of the MasterChef final.”

 

The memory hit Stiles instantly, it was about a week before they actually broke up. Scott had asked him if wanted to check out some strange track marks he’d spotted an hour of town, and Stiles who had been stuck inside writing his final college application all day, had jumped at the chance of a bit of danger.

 

“Okay, you’re right. I remember.”

 

“Do you also remember when we went over to Derek’s for dinner? The fancy one that I helped make?”

 

Stiles knew his face was a perfect crease of confusion, “Yeah, of course I remember that. You and Derek were all… Weird. I’m pretty sure you told me a story about Derek winning a spelling bee.”

 

Peter had a little smile on his face at that, not really the happy kind. The kind that meant he was right, but for once he wasn’t even pretending to be smug about it.

 

“Do you remember when I started working full time at Jacobs & Stanmore?”

 

“What the fuck are you talking about? Of course I know these things!”

 

“And you wrote me a congratulations card that just had the words 'sell out' in it.”

 

“Are you still pissed about that!? Look, I gave you head _twice_ to make up for that.”

 

“I’m not pissed Stiles. I’m just saying something I probably should have said when we broke up.”

 

“I think you said enough that day to be honest.”

 

Peter tutted, before stating firmly, “I think you should remember which one of us actually said the words ‘I guess we should break up then’.”

 

Stiles opened his mouth to start arguing, but Peter reached forward and silenced him with his hand.

 

“Not now. I know, we’ve done that argument. What I’m trying to say Stiles, is that I’ve moved on. I’m grateful for how our relationship helped get me there, and for all the life of me I wanted you to move on with me. But I’ve moved on, I’ve put that part of my life to rest. And I couldn’t be with someone who wanted that version of me still around.”

 

Stiles felt like all the air had been sucked out of the car all of a sudden. He hadn’t even noticed that he had started crying at some point along the way, but if he was very honest, crying was such a constant thing for him these days, it wasn’t that noticeable.

 

“Why are you telling me this? It’s just... Sad, and horrible to hear..”

 

Peter unclipped his seat belt and leaned forward so he could cradle Stiles head to his chest. Kissing the top of his head, in a way that made Stiles feel small and encompassed.

 

“Because it’s all horrible right now sweetheart. And I might know lots of things, but I have no idea how to do this either.”

 

“So why didn’t you want to have sex with me?”

 

“Because I love you star kid, and it just didn’t feel right.”

 

Stiles felt a massive sob break out of his chest, as he felt a wave of grief fill him.

 

“It’s never going to go back to how it was, is it?” Stiles asked in a small voice.

 

“No it’s not.”

 

“This is really it, we’re not together anymore.”

 

“I’m afraid not.”

 

Stiles extricated himself from Peter’s embrace, and picked his bag up from the footwell in front of him.

 

“I have- I have to go.”

 

“Do you want me to drive you to the door?”

 

Stiles shook his head, his heart racing and his head pounding with the knowledge that he just _had to_ get out the car.

 

“No I- I just have to go.”

 

When he got through the door of his dad’s house, the sheriff was just coming out of the kitchen. “Hey kiddo, I just- woah, what’s wrong?”

 

Stiles dropped his bag by the door, tears running down his face.

 

“He loves me - and I still love him - but… But we’re not going to be together anymore.”

 

This wasn’t news to the Sheriff, in fact, Stiles had had many a sad moments with his father, and a handful of them about this very break up. But, all the same the Sheriff just opened his arms and said, “Come here.” And gave him a hug.

 

It hurt, but there wasn’t much else he could do.

 

* * *

 

 

From Peter <3: “Will you need me to pick you up soon?”

 

From Starkid: “I think Im gonna stay here at my dads”

 

From Starkid: “For good. I think its time i move out the house.”

 

From Peter <3: “Although that sounds like a wise decision, I already mourn the loss of your presence.”

 

From Starkid: “I’m going to have to stop texting you now, otherwise i dont think i will ever stop.”

 

Peter didn’t respond to him, and Stiles called him a complete dick for being so fair and thoughtful.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.  
> There is an optional epilogue I've written that will have a happy/hopeful ending.  
> I'll upload it once this chapter has had a chance to settle.
> 
> However, this fic is supposed to sit with just this ending.
> 
> Comments & kudos are always welcome.


End file.
